


Linger Like a Tattoo Kiss

by pwk072347



Series: Beyond Rules and Strictures [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Actual Character Death (background);, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But with a happy ending;, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26105443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwk072347/pseuds/pwk072347
Summary: “Do you believe in reincarnation, Nicolo?”It was said that spirits of those who passed away will come to a bridge across the river that separates the world of the dead from the living. Here, an old woman will present them with the Tea of Forgetfulness, relieving them of their memories from their previous lives. Then they will cross the bridge, and be reborn to the world once again.***How Nicky navigates through life after Joe is gone.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Beyond Rules and Strictures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168283
Comments: 21
Kudos: 141





	Linger Like a Tattoo Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in five years, and then the Immortal Husbands hit me like a truck out of nowhere. Never say a not-creative person cannot have sudden burst of ideas with the right incentives. 
> 
> Thanks Nikkie for the beta and patiently hearing me rant for the past month :)

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Nicolo?”

* * *

He woke to a dream that morning.

It was one of those dreams you start to forget the moment your mind shakes off the drowsiness. But it had felt familiar, and it filled him with a peaceful warmth that slowly spread to his limbs.

He freshened up and walked to the living room, pushing open the front window along with the green wooden shutters. Their house, a humble cottage with a small veranda in front and a patch of land that passed for a garden in the back, was situated on the waist of a small hill, overlooking the city of Valletta. The trees along the dirt road up the hill were lush and concealing, only opening up right in front of the house to reveal the view he was now admiring. Down under, the stone houses with red tile roofs basked in the glowing morning sun. Further away, fishing boats and cruise ships sailed across glistening water as blue as the sky above. He yawned, feeling his joints loosen up from last night’s sleep.

Next, he attacked the fridge to look for breakfast ingredients. Eggs, lettuce, some ham, and a tomato, enough for a decent sandwich. In passing, he opened the jars containing sugar and cream for coffee, and found the supply was surprisingly low.

He muttered to himself to restock this afternoon. He had acquired this habit of talking to himself while maneuvering through the everyday chores, either narrating his actions or just commenting on one thing or another. “This synthetic cream they use these days really can’t compete with what we used to have.” He shook his head as he cracked an egg into the frying pan, “You remember that time, Joe –”

He caught himself before he finished the sentence, the spatula raised half way through gesturing towards the kitchen table. None of the chair was pulled out. The table was empty.

He vaguely recalled last week marked thirty years after Joe’s funeral. He didn’t visit this time around, but maybe some of the team did. He had been there every now and then in the past decades, not as often as one would prefer. Yet again, he was never fond of cemeteries.

They buried Joe at his hometown, a small village in modern Morocco. Quynh had tentatively suggested burying him next to Andy, but he felt somehow it was important to return Joe to his roots, to where it all began. None of them could bring themselves to cremate him onsite, so it had been hell of a journey bringing his body half way across the globe after wrapping up the mission.

He spent the morning tinkering around the back garden. The coming of spring brought color and breathed life into Malta. Might as well start early with the lawn mowing and weeding so as not to get caught up by it comes summer. So he repotted the artichoke thistle, careful not to disturb the delicate violet buds. He trimmed the wild bushes that overgrew during winter.

But the great challenge remained the Judas tree tucked in the corner of the garden. Over the years, the trunk had grown to exceed the size that was reasonably manageable, and the sprawling branches once again blocked the second-floor window to the bedroom. The abnormal size also meant the tree needed more nutrient than the garden soil could provide, making it weaker and weaker by the year. The leaves seemed sparser this time around, he observed, and the ones that did sprout sported a sickening color. The bark had turned an unhealthy shade of white, seemingly parched and cracked in places.

He supposed this was inevitable due to the decade long negligence following his acquisition of the house. He tried to recall how the pink flowers must have bloomed beautifully in spring back when the tree was strong and healthy, but found he couldn’t remember. He assumed that was also inevitable, since he wasn’t paying much attention to the tree back then – or to pretty much anything around him, to be honest. He wouldn’t call himself living at the time, was barely even surviving.

In the end, he couldn’t do much except chopping off the branches blocking the second-floor view, and padding extra fertilizer firmly around the base of the trunk. He knew these actions he took now wouldn’t revive the Judas tree, but he did it anyway, as though repenting for lost time. By late morning, sweat was dripping down his brow, and his T-shirt was soaked despite the cool spring air.

He turned on the coffee machine before ducking in for a quick shower, and was welcomed with the rich aroma when he came out. He took one of the two identical mugs from the shelf, and poured one cup – with cream, two sugars. That pretty much used up what was left in the jars.

He gently put the mug down on the kitchen table, at the seat facing the window. Then he poured another cup – black, no sugar – and sat down with it across from the mug, taking a sip. He had intended to read, but ended up spending most of the time staring wordlessly at the steam rising from the cream coffee.

* * *

It was Quynh who introduced them to the idea of reincarnation, one night several centuries ago around a campfire he couldn’t recall where anymore.

In Asian folklore, it was said that spirits of those who passed away will go through the underworld, until they come to a bridge across the river that separates the world of the dead from the living. Here, an old woman will present the spirits with the Tea of Forgetfulness, relieving them of their memories, all the regrets and attachments, from their previous lives. Then they will cross the bridge, and be reborn to the world once again.

Nicolo was immediately intrigued. The concept was so different from what he was taught since childhood – that life on earth eventually comes to an end with a final destination either in heaven or hell – he couldn’t wrap his head around it. He looked at his surroundings dimly lit by the campfire. To think that all around them, humans and living things formed an endless regenerating cycle spanning centuries and millennia, the enormity of it was almost humbling. It was as if he was witnessing the –

“– Circle of life, yes.” Quynh finished the sentence for him as though she read his mind. “Nothing ever fades. One takes comfort in knowing your loved ones will live on. First and foremost, they live on in you, in your heart and memories.” Andromache returned from her watch just then. Nicolo saw Quynh chuckled as arms immediately circled around her waist from behind. “But even when memories fail us, our loved ones live on around us.” She smiled sweetly as she met Andromache’s eyes. “Even if we may not recognize each other.”

Nicolo watched Andromache threaded her fingers through Quynh’s long curls and gently combed her hair, her body relaxing and easily molded into the chest behind her. He wondered whether Quynh’s belief in reincarnation was why she seemed so unfazed by it all, the fading faces of their families, the never-ending stretches of time ahead, the finiteness of their immortality. He wondered whether this was what kept her alive before Andromache found her.

He heard a low muttering to his left, before a palm covered his own, absent-mindedly rubbing patterns on the back of his hand. For someone usually so keen on expressing his opinion, Yusuf was oddly quiet tonight. Nicolo turned to see his profile half hidden in shadow, eyes scrunched, deep creases forming on the sharp bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth, pondered for a while as though there was a sentence coming, but then thought better of it. Nicolo tilted his head to the side in a silent question, but Yusuf only shook his head. He gently kissed Nicolo’s forehead, stood up, and headed off to begin his watch.

* * *

Nile came over after lunch, and they went to the market together.

The team was on their between-mission vacations, and Nile was the one who came to visit this time, staying at a small hostel closer to city center. He had not been going on missions with them for the past three decades, since Quynh insisted on giving him the same treatment she received a century ago under the same circumstances. But they hadn’t left him alone. Someone always came to Malta during their off times, and he had a inkling the frequency and length of those breaks had increased significantly throughout the years.

The market was not far from Nile’s hostel, several dozen white tents sprawling the white cobblestone square. Middle-aged women in floral dresses maned their booths, showcasing mouth-watering fruits and nuts, haggling with the occasional tourists. The smell of freshly-baked breads and sweets wafted into his nostrils. Towards the back of the market, butchers were chopping their pork and beef into neat slices. There were even some chicken and a cow in the enclosure behind their booths. He had no must-buy items today except the cream and sugar – this afternoon was more about bonding time with Nile – so they strolled between the tents aimlessly.

It took him a while to realize he was subconsciously scanning the crowds, searching for a glimpse of those tender fingers, that specific slope of a broad shoulder, those unruly curls of dark hair, and that pair of piercing hazel eyes. His pulse quickened despite the wondering glances coming up empty.

This particular predicament hadn’t plagued him for over twenty years. Back in the early days, he was chasing shadows down every grocery line and falling down memory lane at every street corner. It was maddening. At its worst, he had to lock himself in the house, as all contact with the outside world became unbearable. If not for the superb 23rd century technologies and delivery services, he would have suffered many welcomed deaths right then and there.

The subconscious reaction resumed last week. He was about to tell himself to pull it together when Nile dragged him to one of the fruit stands, waving excitedly at the exotic loquats and watermelons, and delved into a rather embarrassing story involving her and a durian during one of her trips to South East Asia. Her emotion was infectious. Before long, he was laughing wholeheartedly with her, wiping stray tears from his eyes. His pulse had returned to normal.

His team, his found family, was what grounded him in the here and now, gently prodding him forward with their inconspicuous acts of kindness. That, and the indisputable evidences that the world was moving onward every day: the trees along the path turning a blinding gold and orange in autumn, then sprouting light greens in spring; the farmer’s cows giving birth to little cattle every other summer; the baby girl once cradled in the baker’s arms one day putting on her bookbag, ready for school. The realization that he was witnessing the circle of life, that something grander than himself was still in motion despite everything, shook him out of it. That day, he felt he breathed for the first time in a decade.

On their way back to the cottage, Nile continued to fill him in on the latest news of their team. From the way she talked, no one would think she was already counting the last days of her vacation, and she wasn’t meeting him for the first time after a long period apart. He now knew Booker’s newest hobby was using his forgery skills to help with old text restoration. Nile had finally perfected ancient Greek, and was considering moving on to Korean. Quynh bought a pet pony, and had been spending most of her spare time in the US with her. She planned to call her Andrea.

He was now at a stage where news like this came easy to him, like he was one with the team, not physically and mentally apart. He wondered whether this meant he was finally ready. Maybe almost.

They came home, and he busied himself with putting away the groceries, while Nile hanged around in the living room, chewing soundly on the figs she bought from the market. “Hey, did you dream of …” she suddenly asked, her voice uncertain.

“Huh?” He poked his head out from the pantry, not catching her question.

“… Never mind. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

* * *

“I won’t drink it, you know.”

The first time they talked about it since that night by the campfire had been more than half a millennium later, so long that the single sentence seemed to come from nowhere and bear no context. Nicky continued to rinse the dirty cups at the sink of their safehouse in Dusseldorf. Or maybe he heard it wrong, as Joe had wondered over at that moment, wrapped his arms around Nicky, and buried his nose in the crook of Nicky’s neck. He relieved Joe of the cutleries in his hands, turning to brush a kiss against his temple. 

Joe nuzzled further into the back of his shirt. “The Tea of Forgetfulness.” At the sight of his quizzical raised eyebrow, Joe elaborated, “You remember that story Quynh told us ages ago? I’m saying when it’s my time, I won’t drink it.”

When Nicky didn’t respond, Joe disentangled himself and slumped back onto his chair at the kitchen table. From the corner of his eyes, Nicky could see Joe tightened his jaw, his defiant gaze shot across the room and landed on the living room sofa. Andy and Quynh had rested there for a while when they returned from their regular checkup at the hospital, before Quynh gently ushered her upstairs to rest.

Nicky mused that to the unsuspecting eyes, the two women could now pass for mother and daughter, or even the stern grandmother and her doting grand-daughter. Their loving glances and gentle caresses given definitions anew.

He put all the dishes in the machine, then moved to pour coffee into Joe’s mug – with cream, two sugars, just the way he liked it. “I don’t think you can trick the system like that.”

“Why not? What can she do, force me to drink it?” Joe feigned indignation, putting one hand over his heart as if hurt, which enlisted a giggle from Nicky. “You don’t think I can take on a tiny old lady?”

He squeezed the mug into Joe’s hands on his way to the living room. Andy’s diagnosis report, nicely tucked in the hospital envelope, sat on the corner of the coffee table. He believed he knew what triggered this conversation now. Joe was the first to look up from his sketchbook the moment Quynh and Andy came in. Nicky vividly recalled how his shoulders sagged when Quynh met his gaze, and gave a slight shook of her head. Terminal cancer. Who would have thought.

He could feel Joe’s stare hot on the back of his skull. Heard the scrape of chair legs and coffee being poured.

The report weighed heavy in the back of his mind. “I still don’t think that’s how it works.” He turned around and latched onto Joe’s gaze. “Besides, it won’t come to that. We will go together.”

Joe sighed. He came over, putting his mug and Nicky’s cup of coffee – black, no sugar, just the way he liked it – on the coffee table. “You can’t promise that.” He draped an arm over Nicky’s shoulder, and Nicky shifted without thinking to fit their bodies closer. “However, I _can_ promise that I won’t get rid of my memories, tiny old lady be damned.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he put his nose in Nicky’s hair, “I don’t want to forget you.”

Nicky was overcome with a wave of such intensity he had no words for. So he hugged Joe tightly, hiding his face in Joe’s chest and feeling his laugh rumbled beneath.

Joe rested his chin gently on the crown of his head. When he spoke, there were strength and conviction in his voice. “I’ll find you, OK? Whatever it takes, I’ll come back to you.”

Nicky couldn’t help but tilted his head and sealed their lips at that, desperately trying to convey through his solemn kiss that yes, he would do the same. What they had was greater than the limits of rules and strictures. Indeed, their love had already transcended life and death. It would transcend whatever comes beyond.

So he would wait.

* * *

By the time the sun was setting in the west, it had started to drizzle. The remaining sunlight painted the city gold, like a halo backlighting through the dripping rain drops.

He decided to make spaghetti for dinner. The first handful he took was too much, so he put some back in the canister. The corners of his mouth curved up slightly as he remembered back in the beginning, Booker used to tease him, not unkindly, about him gaining weight, as he often absent-mindedly made meals for two, and ended up having to eat them all by himself. He was surprised – or maybe not so much – at how the memory only triggered a dull sadness and a kind of resigned nostalgia now.

Joe’s mug was still on the kitchen table, the coffee untouched and already cold. He thought for a while and chose to left it where it was.

The dream from last night had gradually came back to him during the day. It was the ones they used to have, montage of images and emotions, barely any sound. It felt all too familiar, yet somehow different. For instead of the usual shaky flashes in muted color, and the accompanying confusion, horror, and fear, he had seen the man in a steady stream of rosy hue, and felt his relief, joy, and anticipation.

A man, he suddenly realized. He had dreamt of a man.

The rain started pouring when dinner was ready, shrouding the evening sky in darkness. He felt a chill, so he put on the old cardigan hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. The first strike of lightning brightened the room like daylight. He saw the front window was still open from this morning, and walked over to close it. Half way in his track, however, he froze when a second lightning briefly lit up the front of his house.

A man was standing on the veranda, half turned away from the door.

Something choked at the bottom of his throat. The man wore a black leather jacket, faded blue jeans, and a pair of short combat boots that overall looked familiar. It took him a few seconds to guess he probably caught glimpses of him at the market this afternoon. He squeezed his eyes, and was unable to stop himself from comparing: the man was taller, but leaner in build, less muscular. The skin on the back of his neck, from the bits he could see, was a darker shade of milky brown. His jaw was clean-shaven, and his curly black hair shorter, but appeared soft to the touch nonetheless.

The man had his hands on his hips, and was pacing in front of the door, seemingly agitated. In the living room, he inched towards the window quietly, not realizing he was holding his breath.

The man turned around just as the third lightning lit up the sky. Their eyes met through the open window, through the pouring rain. And it was the exact warm pool of hazel, embedded with boundless tenderness and love, plus a glint of recognition.

And then he knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Title (and several motifs) from Taylor Swift's "cardigan."
> 
> As an Asian not raised on either Christian nor Muslim traditions, how reincarnation could fit into the narrative of this particular fandom has been intriguing for me, especially how it may be used to counter the "all things must die" dilemma. Instead of a research essay, this is my attempt at answering that question.
> 
> This is my first fic on AO3! All kudos and comments are appreciated with immense gratitude <3


End file.
